This has to be one of the most moving threads I've read. Lox, that was beautiful. petr, how brave you are, I remember how it feels, so soon afterwards, never forget that those you love never leave you.

My Dearest Dad.

My strongest memories of him; holding out his arms to take his newborn grandaughter into them, then walking gently with her to his chair, as he was frightened he'd drop her. He had emphysema, so even holding her puffed him out. He sat there, tears trickling down his ol' face.

Three weeks later, he had his first stroke, and in the coldest winter for 20 years his little grandaughter went to visit him, but being only 3 and a half weeks old, she wasn't allowed on the ward. He knew none of us, didn't recognise our names even, but he called out for her every day. He was expected to never recover. They told us that if he did live, then he'd never walk again, never make sense, so massive had the stroke been.

Four weeks later, I stood at the end of that ward corridor, as he defied all medical opinions, and staggered down, on a zimmer frame, towards his grandaughter. "I'm here my darling!" he called out. He fell into the chair in the waiting area, held out his arms once more, and those tears started again, along with the smiles.

He had finally been able to understand that he couldn't see her whilst in his bed, so the power of love had taken over. He literally made himself recover, against all odds, to be with this little soul who meant so much to him.

He spent the next three years cramming a lifetime of love into her, for he knew his time was short. There were days when I'd catch him crying again, quietly, to himself, desperately sad that he'd never see her grow, promising me to always look after his 'little smiler' I promised him, through my tears.

She's 21 now, and beautiful. She wears her grandfather's old shirt, when she paints, because she feels close to him in it. His grandson is 14 next month, with his Grandpa's grin and his sense of humour. I wish he could have held his grandson too, but part of me feels he did, that he still holds them both.

He loved Mantovani and Morecambe and Wise. He adored Sophia Loren, Gina Lollabrigida and Shirley Bassey, becoming quite starry-eyed over them all. He held doors open for every and any woman who walked through one, all women were 'ladies' to him.

Every single Saturday of our childhood, he'd arrive home with two little paper bag of sweets, one each for my brother and I, all hand-picked for us by him, to last us the week. And every Saturday morning he'd open the top drawer of his wardrobe and give us our pocket money, sixpence to start with, half-a-crown when we were older.

I used to love to watch him shave, he'd put all that soap on his face, then foam it up, he looked so funny, then he'd turn, see me and put a huge dollop of foam on my nose, ending with both of us laughing. He sang as he shaved, he had a lovely voice, but he only ever sang in the mornings, in the bathroom.

He never stopped loving my mother to the day he died, even though she'd stopped loving him decades before. His family meant the world to him.

When his second stroke came, three years later, I was with him as he died. I held his hand, as he had so often held mine.

After he died, there was 'nothing material' left behind, for financially he hadn't a penny to his name. Yet, the treasure he left is with me to this day. It will be for the rest of my life.

He was gentle, caring, quiet, honest and honourable.

He taught me how to live, and he taught me how to die.

It's 18 years since I lost him and I miss him. Every day I miss him.

I'm glad, and proud, that he was mine.

Very few men ever get to match up to a daughter's father. I am blessed to know such a man.